Jacket
by Supernaturelle
Summary: Snapshots of Sammy growing up. Lots of angst, some fluff, no Wincest. Oneshot for now at least, the prompt Jacket kind of ran away with me. Enjoy and please review.


**A/N: **I had this prompt and it really ran away with me.

**Summary:** Snapshots of Sam at various stages of his life, through to just after the Pilot.

**Disclaimer:** If I said I owned them, I'd be lying. Or delusional.

**Jacket**

As a baby, Sammy wore a powder blue jacket, knitted by Mary's sister. John never really liked it, but never said anything because Mary fell in love with the damn thing. Sammy ended up wearing it practically every other day. John compensated by insisting on picking out the clothes Dean wore.

The last day the jacket was worn, Sammy was 5 months and 29 days old. Mary gently removed it before Sammy was tucked in that night, placed it, neatly folded, on the chair in the corner of the nursery.

The jacket went the same way as just about everything else that night. Too tainted by the smoke and flames to be salvaged.

xxxxx

At 13, Sam was clad in an oversized, slightly ripped purchase from the army surplus store. It was definitely Sam now, not Sammy anymore (although Dean really liked to push his luck with that one), the objection to the babying name apparently part of the extra-special growth spurt package deal. It wasn't only the name that had become an issue, though – it was the babying in general.

Sam was finally a teenager, and not about to let his father or his brother forget it any time soon. He wanted to start getting involved in the job. The desire to follow the example of the only two role models he'd ever known was now encouraged by his height advantage, clear and obvious proof to a 13-year-old that he was ready for anything the world could throw at him.

Exasperated, pushed to the end of every frayed nerve he had, John started relenting. Only on the small stuff – training, research, prep work, initial recon outings (that he'd already checked out himself to make sure there was no immediate danger). Letting Sam feel included, but not putting him in real danger while he was still too young for the fault not to fall completely and utterly on John's shoulders if anything should go wrong.

The second-hand combat style jacket was a part of that. John brought it home and Sam's face lit up. He wore it incessantly, and with ridiculous pride. John practically had to threaten to burn the thing to make sure it got washed occasionally. Sam saw it as a statement – as proof that he was becoming a part of this lifestyle now. John saw him wear it, listen to all the advice and training, follow his big brother around like a damn puppy, and he was proud. Part of him was proud. The other part of him – the part that still clung for dear life to the memory of Mary and the plans they used to make - ached, regretted, _apologized _as he watched their baby grow into a soldier.

The jacket was discarded after a 15-year-old Sam's first hunt. It was ripped too badly. And besides, it wasn't needed to prove anything anymore – the first of many scars were Sam's proof of belonging now.

xxxxx

When Sam turned 16, they were going through a rough patch. Dean was in hospital. It was the time Sam really started questioning how they lived, rebelling against the dangers and insufficiencies of their lifestyle.

After the first few days of Dean's hospital stay, of waiting and praying for him to _wake_ up_, dammit,_ Sam nearly collapsed from stress and exhaustion. He was ordered on pain of having to wear a backless, pink hospital gown to get home, sleep, eat something that didn't come out of a vending machine. John dropped him off at the motel and sped straight back to the hospital. He stumbled into the motel room, his mind a blur of sleep-induced detachment and a crushing mix of concern, guilt and fear over his brother. He moved in a half-asleep daze, tears that had gone unacknowledged for the last week making his eyes ache. Slumping on one of the beds, he grabbed the one bag of Dean's stuff that hadn't been taken to the hospital yet. Just something to hold on to.

Shaking fingers pulled open the zip on the sports bag, brushed over the contents. For some reason, they latched around a jacket. Faded, worn, brown leather, far too big for Dean but he'd always insisted it was so damn cool that it didn't matter if it didn't quite fit. One of those ridiculous quirks Sam used to tease him about. Seeing it brought home just how much Sam would give to hear one of his brother's annoyingly quick, snide comebacks. Just one.

Sam pulled the jacket out of the bag, buried his face in the soft leather. It smelled of Dean. Pulling it tight round his shoulders, he curled up on the uncomfortable bed. He never let the tears fall, unsure if he'd be able to stop them once they started. He drifted into a fitful sleep, wrapped in a pitiful replacement for the comforting presence of his brother.

He woke to the sound of his ringing cell, John's joyful voice on the other end, reassurances that _he's awake, he's doing better, he's going to be ok_.

Sam wrapped himself in that jacket every night until Dean finally left the hospital. He knew Dean might understand why Sam had needed that connection to him, however tenuous, but he'd still joke about it. He'd make a face, whine about Sammy cooties and girlie smells. So Sam never told.

xxxxx

At 20, Sam stood in front of the mirror of his college room, scrutinizing the details of the outfit he'd picked for the evening. The black suit jacket over a plain shirt and jeans seemed to fit the smart-casual look he was trying to go for, not really sure where the night was going to lead.

He practically bounced to the door when the knock finally came, nervous energy flowing through his actions. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of Jess standing in the corridor, wearing a simple black dress, her long blonde hair resting in loose curls on her shoulders.

"Wow, Jess, you look..."

"Yeah, wow – you too..."

He was gratified that she seemed just as nervous as he was. Friends turning into something more – it didn't usually work out, did it? Would they both end up regretting that he'd ever mentioned the word date? "Erm... shall we go, then?" His voice sounded timid, almost apologetic for crying out loud. _Wow, this is a great start. Dean would never let me live this down. _

The nervous half-smile that played across her lips in reply changed things. He remembered why he wanted things to move to that next level, the way he felt every time he realized that someone as amazing and unique as Jess was even deigning to look at him. He sent a smile back, remembered the flowers he'd left on the side.

"Oh, one sec." He turned, grabbed the small – _small but classy_ – bunch of roses and, holding them out, saw the mischievous grin now painted across Jess's face.

"What? What is it?"

"Sam, your – um – the label's still attached to the back of your jacket."

His cheeks flushed with embarrassment as Jess continued to smile up at him. "Crap."

"Yeah, great way to make a first impression on a girl. Really classy. Seriously." There was no malice in her voice, no intent to embarrass him further, as she pulled on his arm to turn him back around. "Come on, I'll get it for you. Great start, huh?" She quickly removed the offending item, letting it drop to the floor between them as he turned back to face her. Her hand lingered on the back of his shoulder, her face tilted up towards his, the look in her eyes expectant, excited, but not demanding. Not wanting to push too far, make him uncomfortable.

That was when he realized – uncomfortable just wasn't possible with this girl. There was something there – he didn't know what it was, just that there was no way them, together, wouldn't work. He returned her gaze, his fingers drifting up to gently lift her chin, guide her lips towards his as he murmured "Let's see if I can't make up for it then."

xxxxx

A 22-year-old Sam stood in the motel room's bathroom, a light khaki zip-up jacket dangling from one hand. He watched blankly as the steady stream from the taps slowly filled the sink with tepid water.

Dean noticed the door to the bathroom slightly ajar when he got back from his food run. He set the bag he was carrying down on one of the beds and walked over towards the not-quite-closed door. "Sam, you ok man?" _Stupid, idiotic, dumbass thing to say._ _Of course he's not ok._ When no answer came, Dean tapped softly on the door and waited a couple of seconds before gently edging it further open. "Sam?"

Dean's first instinct was to run, and he hated himself for it. He couldn't deal with this. _Selfish jackass_ resounded in his head as he took a hesitant step forward. His heart caught in his throat as Sam slowly turned his head. He found himself barely able to meet that empty look in his baby brother's eyes. Desolate, haunted, broken. Too deadened to be described as screaming the pain – just reflecting it in waves, so powerfully that Dean could practically feel the air in the room drying up with it. It had been the same since the fire two nights before. Sam had been changed – still functioning on a basic level, but something so fundamental was missing that it was almost like he'd disappeared. Retreated into himself, the same emptiness in his eyes taking his place in his own body. He hadn't even cried yet.

They stood, frozen, gazes locked, for a few moments before Dean found himself able to move closer to Sam's side. Noticing the jacket clasped in trembling fingers, he cast a quizzical glance up at his brother.

Sam's voice was hoarse, cracking as he softly spoke. "I... it still smells of smoke. I'm trying to wash it out. Can't get it clean."

Dean nodded in understanding, in sympathy – they'd gone back to retrieve what they could of Sam's personal possessions the previous day, most things he'd already taken to the laundry himself. Sam shouldn't have to bother with crap like that. Not now.

"Hey, it's ok. It might be best to throw it out. We'll get you a couple new ones soon."

There were still no tears in Sam's eyes as he replied, just the same hollowness as before. "It was a birthday gift from Jess. I hoped... I dunno, that I could save it, I guess."

Suddenly, Dean felt that selfish, overwhelming need to run again. To escape the fact that he couldn't do this. Couldn't stand to see his brother like this while he stood by utterly helpless, somehow even managing to make things worse when worse didn't seem possible.

"Oh, man – I didn't know. We'll get it washed out properly."

"No. No point. Don't think I can be around the smoke smell anymore." The jacket, released from a white-knuckled grip, landed in a crumpled heap on the tiled floor.

"Sam, you – you look like crap." It was said gently, not in spite or jest, just concern. "You really need to try and get some sleep. You think you can do that? I'll carry on with the research like you wanted, you just... even if it's just for a couple of hours, ok?"

Sam quietly aquiesced, settling on one of the beds, eyes drifting shut. It pained Dean so much to know that it wasn't going to be a restful sleep. Not for a while. He glanced over every few seconds while Sam slept, wishing that things could just be right again. Not sure he could succeed in this responsibility, in helping Sam through this. But there was no way he would give up trying.

He bundled the jacket up, hid it away until he could have it cleaned. A few weeks later, he handed it silently back to Sam. He watched the emotions battling on the weary face, saw the carefully-constructed wall finally break down. And because being there was all he could do, Dean sat with his little brother as he cried.

xxxxx

A/N: I hope this one was as interesting to read as it was to write. Any feedback on the whole or any of the parts will be much appreciated. There are possible ideas for more sections, but only if they're wanted, so let me know :)


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